They say that there’s an old lady who lives at the top of Bolson Hill in a little wooden shack that everyone stays away from. All the kids at school say that she’s a witch or a ghoul, or a wizard if you’re stupid. I don’t believe in magic cuz my parents say it isn’t real, so I think there’s only two things she can be: an angel or a demon. I told my buddy Kyle about my theory, and he called me a word that my mom wouldn’t want me repeating.
One day, in late August, I bravely rode my bike across town to Bolson Hill. The hurricane last year had torn the scattered, looming trees to bits, but her shack hadn’t been hit. “Must be blessed by God to still be standing,” Mom had said. Which, thinking back, only helped my theory. I laid my bike down on the grass and started trudging upwards.
When I got to the top, the shack didn’t seem so small no more. I raised my hand to knock on the imposing door, but it slowly creaked open on its own, screeching wood against the stoop, as if something inside had sensed me. Thin sunlight crept through the gap and illuminated just half of a face, drooping flesh and a single shiny eye staring out at the world, at me. I took in a loud breath as that beady eye swiveled and locked onto mine. It stared deep inside me, locking my feet to the ground and roaming through my mind, judging every single sin I’d ever committed in some kind of dark exploration of my soul. I watched, a prisoner in my own body, as its mouth slowly began to open, and the fears of a thousand years struck my heart all at once.
Against all odds, my legs had finally remembered their purpose. I bolted down the hill, falling over myself and skinning the crap out of my knee. I grabbed my bike and pedaled like hell out of there. At home I told my dad everything, but he just shook his head, saying: “There’s no old lady on Bolson Hill, son.”
But I know what I saw, and I wish she’d been an angel instead.
Ethan Bazinet is a student at CCSU.